Married To My Toxic Ex-Boyfriend's Brother
Eleanore thought her fiancé, Johan, was her only salvation after her family went bankrupt.
But at a high-society gala, he handed her a drugged glass of water. As the unnatural heat burned through her veins, the horrific truth hit her. Johan had isolated her and controlled her finances, all while secretly getting engaged to a wealthy heiress. He drugged Eleanore to ruin her completely, planning to lock her away as his helpless, secret mistress.
Desperate and losing her mind to the drug, Eleanore fled down the hallway. With Johan and his bodyguards hunting her, she stumbled into the dark presidential suite.
But she wasn't alone. Sitting on the leather sofa was Alexander Briggs—the most feared corporate raider on Wall Street, and Johan's exiled brother.
Outside the door, Johan was screaming, ready to drag her back to hell.
"I can be your antidote. But it's going to cost you."
The ruthless billionaire looked at her trembling body with cold calculation. He offered her a staggering deal: a three-month fake marriage to destroy Johan's empire, and in return, absolute protection and her father's massive debts paid in full.
She couldn't understand why the most powerful predator in New York would use a ruined girl as his weapon, but she knew she would rather die than let Johan touch her again.
When Johan finally broke down the door to claim his prey, Alexander calmly pulled Eleanore into his arms.
"Watch your mouth. You are speaking to my future wife."
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Chapter 1
Eleanore's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin broke, but the sharp sting barely registered over the roaring in her ears.
She shoved past a group of laughing socialites in the Plaza Hotel ballroom, her vision blurring at the edges. The heat started in her stomach, a thick, unnatural warmth that was rapidly spreading outward, turning her blood into liquid fire. She stumbled, her heel catching on the thick carpet.
A waiter holding a tray of champagne stepped into her path. She violently swerved to avoid him, her shoulder colliding hard with a marble pillar.
Ten minutes. It had only been ten minutes since Johan handed her that sparkling water with his signature, possessive smile. The realization hit her like a physical blow to the chest.
"Eleanore!"
Johan's voice cut through the jazz music from across the room. It wasn't a call; it was a command.
Panic seized her throat, choking off her oxygen. She pushed through the heavy side doors, escaping the suffocating noise of the banquet and stumbling into the dimly lit VIP hallway. The cold air-conditioning hit her flushed skin, but it did nothing to stop the relentless burning inside her veins.
She reached the end of the corridor. A yellow maintenance sign blocked the elevator.
She spun around, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She grabbed the brass handle of the nearest guest room door. Locked. She yanked the next one. Locked.
The sound of the ballroom doors opening echoed down the hall. Johan was coming.
She desperately twisted the brass handle of the presidential suite at the very end of the hall. To her shock, it wasn't fully engaged-perhaps a maid had just stepped out. She threw her weight against the heavy double doors, and the unlatched wood gave way. She practically fell inside, her knees hitting the thick, hand-woven wool rug. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, the automatic lock engaging with a solid thud.
She was trapped.
Eleanore stayed on her hands and knees, her chest heaving as she tried to pull air into her burning lungs. The room was dark, illuminated only by a single floor lamp in the corner.
Then, she heard the clink of ice against glass.
She jerked her head up. A massive silhouette sat in the center of the leather sofa.
Alexander Briggs set his whiskey glass down on the mahogany table. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet room. He leaned forward, the dim light catching the sharp, ruthless angles of his jaw. He looked down at her, his expression entirely unreadable.
Eleanore's stomach plummeted. She knew that face. It was plastered across the front page of the Wall Street Journal almost weekly. He was a corporate butcher.
She instinctively scrambled backward, but her limbs felt like lead. The drug was pulling her under.
Alexander stood up. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator. He crossed the room, his expensive leather shoes stopping mere inches from her trembling fingers. The sheer physical presence of the man sucked the remaining oxygen from the room.
He crouched down. His large, rough thumb and forefinger clamped around her burning jaw, forcing her head up.
"Please," Eleanore whispered, her voice cracking. A fresh wave of unnatural heat surged up her spine, threatening to snap her consciousness in half. She bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper, using the sharp spike of pain to desperately try and anchor her mind. "Call an ambulance."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated in Alexander's chest.
He moved his thumb, slowly wiping the drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. "By the time an ambulance gets through Manhattan traffic, sweetheart, you'll be tearing your own clothes off."
Outside the door, heavy footsteps approached.
"Where is she?" Johan's voice was muffled but furious. "Check the doors!"
Eleanore's entire body violently shuddered. Pure, unadulterated terror iced over her veins. Without thinking, her hand shot out, her fingers twisting desperately into the fabric of Alexander's suit jacket.
Alexander looked down at her white-knuckled grip on his clothes. A dark, dangerous gleam flashed in his eyes. His thumb subtly grazed the face of his custom Patek Philippe watch, pressing a concealed panic button twice.
Before she could process his movement, his arms went under her knees and behind her back. He lifted her off the floor effortlessly.
Eleanore gasped, her face pressing into his chest. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and raw male pheromones engulfed her senses, clashing violently with the drug in her system. The heat inside her spiked to an unbearable degree.
He dropped her onto the wide leather sofa, immediately caging her in with his arms on either side of her head.
"I can be your antidote," Alexander murmured, his breath brushing against her lips. "But it's going to cost you."
The door handle rattled violently.
"Eleanore! Open this damn door!" Johan screamed, slamming his fist against the wood.
The sound of Johan's voice broke the last thread of Eleanore's sanity. She couldn't let Johan take her. She would rather die.
Tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks. She reached up, her trembling hands wrapping around the thick column of Alexander's neck, and pulled him down.
She pressed her lips to his. It was clumsy, desperate, and driven by pure fear.
Alexander's body went completely rigid for a fraction of a second. Then, his breathing turned ragged. He took over. His large hand slid to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place as his mouth devoured hers. It was a punishing, invasive kiss that sent a shockwave of electricity straight to her core.
He shifted his weight, his large body covering hers entirely, making the scene look undeniably intimate.
A loud beep echoed through the room. The hotel manager had used the master key.
The door flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Johan stormed in, flanked by two bodyguards.
Johan froze. His eyes locked onto the sofa. The veins in his neck bulged instantly.
"Get off her!" Johan roared, the sound ripping from his throat like a wounded animal.
Alexander slowly pulled back from Eleanore's lips. He didn't look panicked. He didn't even look surprised. He calmly reached down, pulling the edges of his suit jacket tightly around Eleanore's bare shoulders, shielding her flushed skin from the doorway.
Johan lunged forward, his hand reaching out to grab Eleanore's arm.
Alexander didn't even stand up. He simply shifted his weight and drove his heavy dress shoe directly into Johan's kneecap.
Johan let out a sharp cry of pain, stumbling backward and crashing into the coffee table.
"You touched my woman!" Johan screamed, his face red with manic fury.
Guests from the hallway were already gathering at the door, their eyes wide, whispering frantically.
Before Alexander even had to move, a shadow detached itself from the hallway, having been silently summoned moments prior. L. Thorne, Alexander's head of security, stepped into the room.
Alexander stood up. He slowly adjusted his cuffs, his movements precise and terrifyingly calm. He looked at Johan, then at the crowd, his gaze holding the absolute authority of a king surveying his subjects.
"Watch your mouth, Conway," Alexander's voice was deadly quiet, yet it carried through the entire room. "You are speaking to my future wife."
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8.0
Abigayle was the proud heir to the Pena Group, living a perfect life and engaged to Jeffery Sullivan.
But the morning after a charity gala, she woke up drugged in a hotel room, blinded by paparazzi cameras. Her fiancé and her best friend stood at the foot of the bed, throwing a forged pregnancy report at her face to publicly frame her for cheating.
The betrayal was only the beginning of the slaughter. Before she could even clear her name, the Sullivan family ruthlessly bankrupted her family's company overnight. Her father was rushed to the ICU with a heart attack, her brother was run off the road into a coma, and violent repo men raided her penthouse. Just as she was thrown out into the freezing rain, Jeffery's terrifying uncle, Donovan Sullivan—the very mastermind who engineered her family's ruin—stepped in. He offered to cover the life-saving medical bills, but only if she agreed to become his personal plaything.
Abigayle's blood turned to ice. She couldn't understand how the people she trusted most could plot such a vicious, coordinated destruction just to break an engagement. How dared the man who destroyed her entire family stand there playing the savior, trying to buy her body with her own stolen wealth?
Facing a $100,000 hospital deadline and abandoned by everyone she knew, she didn't shed another tear.
"I will never beg him."
Clutching her last diamond bracelet, she hailed a cab straight to the biggest pawnshop in the Diamond District. The Sullivans thought they had buried her, but her counterattack was just beginning.
7.2
For three years, I was imprisoned by Anderson Hopper, the monster who forced me to watch my fiancé, Kendall, plummet into a freezing river.
But when I saw the morning news, I realized Kendall wasn't dead. He had returned as Eben Gill, a ruthless tech billionaire.
I risked my life to escape and find him, only to be met with eyes full of absolute hatred.
He publicly humiliated me, dragged me to the exact bridge where he "died," and sneered at the C-section scar on my stomach.
"Anderson Hopper's bastard," he spat, completely unaware that the baby was actually his—the very child Anderson had murdered in the operating room to break me.
To make matters worse, Anderson used Kendall's dying mother as a hostage to force me back into my cage.
I knelt on the freezing asphalt, begging the man I loved to just visit his mother, while he coldly ordered his driver to run me over.
I had lost my baby, my freedom, and my dignity, all to protect him from Anderson's blackmail. Why was I the one being tortured and treated like a traitor?
"Don't think your little kneeling stunt earned you my forgiveness."
He whispered those cruel words before walking away without looking back.
Staring at his cold, retreating figure, the last shred of my love finally turned to ash.
That night, under the cover of a torrential storm, I bypassed the estate's laser grids and walked out into the dark.
9.4
Six years ago, Breanna was shoved into a pitch-black hotel suite by her own uncle.
She was forced to endure a brutal night with a drugged stranger just to keep her grandmother's ventilator running.
Nine months later, she gave birth in a cold underground clinic.
But her uncle immediately snatched the crying newborn from her trembling hands, coldly announcing the baby had died.
For six years, Breanna lived in agonizing grief, working as a lowly hotel cleaner just to survive.
But a cruel setup threw her directly into the path of Elliot Finch, the arrogant billionaire from that dark night.
He did not recognize the woman whose life he had completely ruined.
Instead, he looked at her like she was rotting garbage, had his guards drag her into a wet alley, and mercilessly got her fired.
"If I ever see your face again, I will make sure you cannot get a job cleaning toilets."
Breanna was suffocating from the injustice, stripped of her dignity and her family's only lifeline.
Yet, when she instinctively protected a traumatized little boy from bullies, she discovered he was Elliot's son.
The boy clung to her neck, crying and desperately begging his father to let her stay.
But Elliot just threw a massive check at her chest, violently accusing her of brainwashing a sick child for a meal ticket.
Looking at the toxic disgust in his eyes, something inside Breanna finally broke.
She picked up the check, ripped the millions into tiny shreds, and let them rain down on his expensive shoes.
"Keep your dirty money."
She turned her back on the crying boy and the stunned billionaire, deciding she would no longer be their victim.
8.8
On the eve of my glamorous Waldorf Astoria wedding, I went to the penthouse to surprise my fiancé, Hugh, wearing my late mother's heirloom pearls.
Instead, I heard my stepsister's familiar laugh and caught them tangled together on the sofa.
Through the cracked door, I heard Hugh slur that he was only marrying me for my family's financial backing.
"As soon as I secure my inheritance, she's the first thing I'm getting rid of," he promised her.
Floy giggled and asked for my mother's pearl necklace, my only legacy. Hugh agreed without hesitation, mocking my dead mother's naivety and my desperate dreams of building a family.
Every sweet word he had ever said was a lie, a knife he had been patiently sliding between my ribs for years. They planned to strip me of everything the moment I signed the prenup.
I didn't cry or scream. The crushing weight of their betrayal hollowed me out, leaving behind a terrifying, absolute calm.
Why should I be the one to lose everything while they stole my future and insulted my mother's memory?
I calmly walked down the hall, set the prenuptial agreement on fire, and vanished into the rainy night.
If Hugh wanted to play dirty for the Maxwell empire, I would play for keeps.
Using a forgotten, century-old family covenant, I was going to marry Hugh's uncle-the comatose, paralyzed war hero, Fleet Maxwell.
I would return not as a naive bride, but as their worst nightmare: his aunt, and the new lady of the house.
7.9
Eileen Goff was a nobody, scrubbing diner tables to survive while her greedy family bled her dry.
On the eve of her twentieth birthday, the government's mandatory marriage algorithm matched her with a spouse.
It wasn't a plumber or a teacher. It was Harrison Butler, the ruthless, untouchable billionaire king of Butler Industries.
At the registry, Harrison's glamorous intended fiancée threw a half-million-dollar check at her.
"Take the money, get out of here, and never show your face again."
The registry supervisor even offered her a million dollars to sign a cancellation agreement, trying to erase her from the system.
At their first high-society gala, Harrison's stepmother and the fiancée locked Eileen in an empty room, plotting to humiliate her and prove she was just cheap trash.
Eileen was terrified and confused. Men like Harrison Butler didn't just accept federal matches with girls who smelled like fried onions.
But instead of abandoning her, Harrison smashed the door open, publicly banished his own family, and kissed her in front of the entire city's elite.
Why was this billionaire going to such extreme lengths to protect a complete stranger?
Then she overheard his assistant talking about a marriage clause in his grandfather's trust fund.
He didn't love her; he just needed a powerless, state-mandated wife to lock his parasitic family out of his empire.
Realizing she was a highly valuable pawn, Eileen stopped trembling, looked the billionaire in the eye, and spoke.
"I believe we can have more than just a legal relationship. We can have a business arrangement."
7.0
I was the Stanton family heiress, engaged to the President's son to secure a vital military alliance.
But he cornered me in the White House sitting room, slamming a thick manila folder onto the marble table.
"I said, sign the annulment agreement, Hester."
He looked at me like I was dirt, demanding I step aside so he could be with a manipulative intern named Tricia.
In my past life, I was a naive lamb. I cried and begged him not to end it. My devotion was rewarded with absolute cruelty. He ordered my bones broken and my reputation completely shredded. My trusted assistant forced poison down my throat, and I was left to die with a rope burning my neck.
Until my last breath, I didn't understand. I had done everything perfectly for the family. Why did my unwavering loyalty only bring me a gruesome death? Why did the monsters who tortured me get to live happily in the highest seats of power?
Opening my eyes again, the suffocating terror of the noose suddenly washed away. I was sixteen again, staring at the exact same annulment papers.
"Hester, please. Just let us be happy," Tricia whimpered, reaching out her trembling hand.
This time, I didn't cry. I picked up the solid gold fountain pen, stabbed it violently through the center of the contract, and prepared to drag the entire First Family straight to hell.